


Friends til the End

by SpaggyB



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Feels, Gen, Sadstuck, cancer fic, cancer story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:28:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaggyB/pseuds/SpaggyB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is dying, slowly, right in front of Sherlocks eyes, and there is nothing anyone can do about it. Sherlock has no choice but to sit by and watch as his best friend, indeed his only true friend in the world, slowly fades away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock, you alright?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock tilted his head ever so slightly in the direction of Johns voice, eyes not moving from the microscope in front of him. All he needed was to find some kind of trace, even just one cell, of a particular solution in this slide, and the case of the disappearing cutlery would be solved.  
The edge of the panel came into view as Sherlock listened to Johns heavy footfalls drawing nearer. He raised his head, rubbing his hands over his face in frustration before turning to look at his flatmate.

"I'm sorry John, what were you saying?" He noted the slight crease in Johns brow, his squared shoulders and the contrasting cock of his head. Something was worrying him.

"I just asked if you were alright." He moved to the counter and grabbed the kettle, his movements stiff and controlled. Something was really worrying him.  
"I'm fine." Sherlock turned in his chair, following his friend as he moved around the kitchen, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "But you're not." He saw John falter, and couldn't help but feel the small ping of satisfaction he always felt when he was right. Which, according to Sherlock, was always.

John stayed silent as he set the kettle back in its cradle and switched it to boil. A moment passed before he answered, without turning around.

"No, no I'm fine. Just, the usual you know." He grabbed a nearby tea towel and busied himself wiping down the bench, an obvious avoidance manoeuvre Sherlock took note of, and cleared his throat before continuing. "Bills, cases. Mycrofts taken to calling me you know, asking about all sorts of bloody things. I'm seriously considering changing my number, but then I guess we both know that…"

"John." Sherlocks smooth, calm voice cut through the babble spilling from Johns mouth like a knife through warm butter. John finally turned to face him, his carefully constructed composure melting under Sherlocks piercing gaze. His face fell, the crease between his eyes shifting from determination to… something Sherlock had trouble understanding. Desperation? Hopelessness? Fear? What would have John feeling so frightened?

Then he saw it. The sheen of sweat on his brow, the ever-so-slightly paler complexion in his cheeks. Sherlock felt his mouth dry out as one by one, the signs made themselves apparent. The slight tang of antiseptic in the air, the creases in Johns left sleeve from where it had been recently rolled up, the slight purple haze of a small bruise forming on the back of his hand from an IV needle. As usual, the clues fell into place in Sherlocks mind, and the possibilities flashed passed in a blur, until the only one that fit was left. Sherlock met Johns gaze, the silence between them broken only by the harsh click of the finally boiled kettle, now abandoned on the bench. The moment was immeasurable, a still pocket in time and space, existing only between the two of them.

"I'm ill Sherlock."

Johns voice cracked the silence like a gunshot through an empty street, and Sherlock dropped his gaze to the floor. His words hung in the air around them, intangible, yet existing in the space as if to taunt them. Sherlocks normally racing mind was oddly still as he absorbed the meaning behind those three small words.

Ill.

John gave a start as Sherlock snapped himself out of it, clearing his throat and straightening his back.

"Ill? With what? Something more than the common cold I presume, judging by the need to take blood samples." His voice was brisk, business like, and John shifted uncomfortably on the balls of his feet, watching his friend as he turned his attention back to the microscope. He had known it would be difficult to tell Sherlock he was dying, but being in the moment left him lost for words.

"Sherlock, please, listen to me." He felt helpless, like a forgotten child trying to gain the approval of his executive father. He waited, but Sherlocks attention was pointedly aimed elsewhere, his face a stern mask of denial. With a sigh, John turned back to the now lukewarm water of the kettle, not bothering to re-boil it before making himself a cup of tea, and retreated into the lounge.


	2. Chapter 2

Hours passed, and neither man said a word, preferring instead to bury themselves within their own personally constructed confines. Sherlock became determined to re-examine every microscope slide in his collection, while John suddenly felt it absolutely necessary to dig up every newspaper clipping in the apartment and re-organise them in chronological order within the case they were associated with. At one stage in the afternoon, Mrs Hudson had made an appearance, chattering about in the living room like she usually did, until the tension between the two friends drove her away in a cloud of concerned confusion. She left in her wake a faint ringing in the air, interrupted only by the feint rustle of Johns paper, or a small click from Sherlocks microscope.

Dusk had settled in by the time John found his work finished. He rose from the arm chair and went to stand next to the open window, gazing out as the last traces of sun disappeared behind the buildings. Baker Street was aglow in the soft orange light, windows reflecting the onset of evening, a slight breeze stirring the awning of the sandwich shop below. He watched as people passed below him, enraptured in their own lives, completely oblivious to those around them. With a weary sigh, he let the thin curtain fall back into place, turning to re-enter the lounge and the harsh reality that had become of his life.

John gave a start when he was confronted with the shadowy outline of Sherlock standing in the kitchen archway. He hadn't heard him move from the table, so he wasn't expecting the tall, slender figure to be staring back at him from across the room. The tension in the air seemed to come alive, crackling like sparks between them before Sherlock finally broke the silence.

"How long?" his voice was low, heavy, and John felt his heart beat in his throat. He swallowed dryly before answering, trying to sound calm and matter of fact.

"Oh, you know, it's still early days. No telling really, what with treatments and the like." He fidgeted with some loose papers on the desk next to him, breaking eye contact with Sherlock out of nervous habit.

"Alright, tell me about treatments then." John felt Sherlocks eyes on him as he moved across the room, pointlessly shifting a pile of books from the desk to the coffee table. Finding nothing else to distract himself with, he settled with standing awkwardly by the couch, eyes downcast away from Sherlocks concerned expression.

"Well, there's the usual really. Chemo, radiation. Surgery, if we get it under control in time." John had kept his eyes locked on the title of one of the novels on the table, so the gentle touch of Sherlocks hand on his arm came as a surprise. He looked up into his companions face, and felt a knot form in his stomach as he registered the sheer grief staring back at him. Another immeasurable moment passed between them until John felt Sherlock give his arm a small squeeze before stepping away and clapping his hands together.

"Right, well." All at once he was back to his usual self, striding around the apartment collecting his coat and scarf, leaving John to trial behind in confusion. "I'd say dinner is in order, are you hungry John? I thought we could eat out tonight, no point messing up the kitchen."

"Sherlock," John took a step forward, shaking his head to try and make sense of the sudden change in atmosphere. "Sherlock, wait, where are you going?"

Sherlock, who was already at the top of the stairs at this point, turn to face the doctor, taking two long strides and coming to a halt in the doorway. He raised an eyebrow.

"I thought we decided on eating out tonight."

John was taken aback by his casual tone.

"Sherlock, I just told you that I'm dying."

"No." Sherlocks voice was harsh, cutting. "You told me you were ill, yet able to undergo treatment. If, as you say, you were in fact dying, then any form of treatment would be a waste of time, and therefore not up for consideration. You specifically mentioned three methods that I'm willing to bet your doctor listed to you just this morning, so why don't we just skip the dramatics and eat hmm?"  
Without waiting for a reply, Sherlock spun on his heel, the hem of his coat billowing out, sending a ripple of air through the apartment, and was away onto the street before the last scrap of paper settled to the floor at an astonished Johns foot.


	3. Chapter 3

That night was the longest night Sherlock could remember living through. John retired to his room soon after the boys returned from dinner, despite it still being early on in the evening, leaving Sherlock to sit in the arm chair in the lounge, gently fingering the strings of his violin, deep in thought. Truth be told, he knew exactly what was happening with John, and it caused his stomach to knot uncomfortably, and his mouth to dry out no matter how much water he drank. Tomorrow, John would go off to hospital to start preparation for Chemotherapy. He would sign all the forms, and agree with all the doctors. He wouldn't ask questions, or suggest amendments to anything that's put in front of him, because that wasn't who he was. He would just do as he was told, and face the treatment head on, with no silly nonsense.

Sherlocks eyes fixed on the yellow smiley face painted across the far wall of the apartment. The bullet holes were still visible, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he recalled that day. It was the day Sherlock discovered Johns first blog entry, A Study in Pink, and gone off at him for calling him "spectacularly ignorant." After that, Sherlock had always picked at Johns blog entries, but the truth was he read every single one, and actually admired the doctor for his ability to recount their adventures so compellingly. He would never admit that to John though.

A soft thud echoed through the roof from the floor above, snapping Sherlcok out of his thoughts. His eyes followed the faint noise across the ceiling as John moved around in his room, his fingers picking at the strings of his violin, the gentle notes reverberating through the still air. Sherlock had never really paid attention to the sounds made by his flatmates passage through the apartment, but on that night he tuned in to every step, every whisper that hinted of his presence, acutely aware that someday soon, they would be silenced for good.

The thought made the knot in his stomach tighter, and he shook his head to clear away the shadows. In one brisk movement, he was out of the arm chair, his violin abandoned on the table, and striding down the hallway to his bedroom, slamming the door shut harder than he intended. In two loping steps he was leaning over the end of his bed, hands gripping the wooden rail so forcefully the skin had drained to a ghostly white. He knew he was losing control of himself, that he was thinking too far ahead of the situation and getting himself worked up over nothing, but no amount of rational thought seemed to calm him down. The notion that one day he may be living in 221B Baker Street alone was just too overwhelming, and it shook him to his core.

Sherlock spent the rest of his night alternating between lying on the cold sheets of his bed staring at one point on the ceiling, and pacing back and forth in the limited space of his room. While he was no stranger to insomnia, that night felt sinister, and by the time the sun made an appearance through the thin veil of his second story window, it had left the bitter tang of lonesome despair on his tongue.


	4. Chapter 4

John was in the kitchen buttering a slice of toast when Sherlock emerged from his room, still in the clothes from the day before. He ran his hands through his hair as his room-mate eyed him suspiciously, tossing his now complete breakfast onto a plate and taking a seat at the table.  
" Didn't sleep again last night then?" John asked before digging in.

" Mmno." Sherlock dragged out, striding over to check the kettle. After his sleepless night he found himself craving a strong coffee and a nicotine patch. Maybe two. Setting the kettle to boil he turned to face the doctor.

" I'll need you to go down to Bart's when you finish that, I've been advised of a potential client. Thirty four year old male spotted by a tourist off the London Bridge floating in the Thames, the police are treating it as suspicious." Sherlock deliberately ignored the look of disbelief on Johns face as he busied himself making a cup of coffee. He knew the likelihood of John going anywhere other than the treatment ward was relatively non-existent, but a small part of him still hoped. " I'll need photos of the body, and try to make them useful to me. Face, hands,feet… just everything really-"

"Sherlock," the scrape of Johns chair across the floor as he stood up made the detective grow still. "Are you being serious right now?" His eyes locked on a particular mark on the counter as he registered the tone of incredulity in his friends voice. A moment passed before John continued.

"I know you know. I bloody well know you're not being serious right now." Another pause, yet Sherlock stayed silent. John sighed, rubbing his hands over his face before letting his arms fall to his sides.

"Sherlock, this is really happening. I don't like it any more than you do, but I have to go to hospital to start treatment today. Now I know it's hard for you, its hard for both of us, but I was really hoping…" he faulted, and Sherlock released the breathe he hadn't known he was holding. He turned to face the stricken blogger, eyes narrowed in thought.

"You were hoping what?"

The flash of desperation Sherlock saw when Johns eyes met him brought back the knot in his stomach from the previous night, causing him to swallow dryly.

"Well, I was rather hoping you'd come with me to the clinic today."

Before he could stop the words from coming out of his mouth, Sherlock answered.

"Why would I want to do that?"

The silence that hung in the air could have been thick enough with tension to sink the floor. The two men stared at each other, Johns mouth slightly agape, Sherlock's pressed together in a thin line. Neither of them knew what to say next, and the tension was left to build, until finally John couldn't handle it any more. He shook his head, eyes falling to the floor in a wounded scowl.

"No reason. No reason… at all." He moved out of the kitchen, going to gather a few items before he left for the hospital. Sherlock followed him, aware that somehow, he had overstepped a line.

"Have I upset you John?"

The look on Johns face was enough to answer Sherlock's question, and he found himself uncomfortable with the progression. Trying to fix what he had started, he continued on.

"Well, what would I even do there? All that's going to happen is you'll be hooked up to a machine in a room filled with other people hooked up to machines, there is literally nothing I would be able to do to make it any different. I may as well continue working while you get better, anything else doesn't really make much sense!"

"Fine!" Johns hands were running over his face again when his voice burst through the room. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath while Sherlock stood awkwardly by, stress and concern showing on his face.

"You're right, Sherlock, fine. Go, solve the case of the floating… person. Ill handle this by myself."  
With a sigh, John grabbed his coat and headed for the door. Sherlock followed him to the top of the stairs, acutely aware that he'd made things worse.

"John…"

The soft thud of the door echoed up the stairs, leaving Sherlock alone in the hallway, confused, frustrated and over all, ashamed.


	5. Chapter 5

The next few weeks passed slowly, and the tension in 221B Baker street grew thicker and thicker with every passing day. Johns treatments continued to get more intense with every session, and he would often return to the flat late in the afternoon only to head upstairs to bed without eating a thing. The nights Sherlock spent alone in the living room poring over papers and evidence grew more and more frequent as the days dragged on. The atmosphere between the two boys grew stagnant, neither one quite knowing how to break the ice that had settled in after their argument before Johns first treatment. A fact that hadn't escaped the keen eye of one Mrs Hudson.

"What about poor John then Sherlock? He's certainly looking a lot worse for wear these days."

Mrs Hudson had stopped by the apartment one afternoon on the pretence of dropping off a bag full of groceries after noticing the distance between her two tenants. Despite her pottering, hustle-bustle nature, she was actually very vigilant, and had a mind as sharp as a tack.  
Sherlock was once again sitting at his desk, tapping away at his laptop. The only indication he gave of hearing Mrs Hudson speak was the slight twitch of his eyebrow, and his eyes failed to leave the screen as he replied.

"It would appear so." His baritone voice gave nothing away as he continued to type. Mrs Hudson frowned at him.

"It must be difficult for him. I went down to the clinic with him a few times you know? Such a dreary place down there it is. So many ill people, and all the beeping machines… and the smell oh! I don't know how he can do it really. I mean, without someone there with him…"

"Mrs Hudson, I don't know what else you could have possibly been expecting." He had sensed where she was steering the conversation, and swiftly cut her babble short, clearly uncomfortable. "It is, after all, a hospital, so of course there were sick patients and machines. As for the smell, well, I've personally always enjoyed it. I find it fresh, clean."

Mrs Hudsons frown deepened as she moved around the flat, straightening the cushions on the couch, and some stray papers on the table. Determined to get her point across, she bravely continued.

"All I'm saying is, it is a lot to deal with, and I imagine it would be lonely for him to be there most days. I mean, I can't always go with him, and no offence to the poor man, but he doesn't have an awful lot of friends. Much like you." She turned to face him, and they locked eyes as her last sentence escaped her lips. Sherlocks nostrils flared and his jaw clenched as he struggled to find a way out of the corner she had backed him into. Coming up short, he huffed out a sigh and dropped his gaze.

"I suppose I could take a day off."

Mrs Hudsons frown instantly evaporated, and she clasped her hands together gleefully at his words. She had known Sherlock for quite a number of years, and in her time she had learned just how to twist his arm, something they both knew. She walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, much to his distaste.

"Come now Mrs Hudson, really?" he shrugged her off sulkily, his lower lip jutted out in an involuntary pout. The last thing he wanted to do was visit the clinic, but he knew if he didn't then Mrs Hudson would only come back more insistent than ever.

She straightened up, satisfied with the outcome, and headed towards the stairs. She paused when she reached the doorway however, and turned back to gaze at the detective, one last after thought crossing her mind.

"It's just important to look out for each other Sherlock."

His fingers grew still at her words, but he gave no other sign that he had heard her. With a weary sigh, Mrs Hudson turned away, and headed down the stairs to her home.


	6. Chapter 6

John had grown used to the prick of the needle in his elbow, but he still let out a sigh. It was going into his fifth week of the treatment, but even the familiarity of the ward didn't make the cream coloured walls and stained carpet any more inviting. Instead, he felt the weary helplessness that just seemed to burrow deeper into his chest with each consecutive visit.

"Hello John! It's good to see you here, I thought I'd have to be alone today!"

A voice to his left cut through his train of thought, and he looked over to see another patient he had met during his sessions. The two of them had struck up a bit of a friendship over the weeks, and John felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

"Mary, how are you? I would say its good to see you too, but it honestly isn't really… considering where we are." A grin spread wide across his face as a pale blush crept into her face. She really was beautiful, and a slight pang that they had to have met like they did snapped in his chest.

"That is true, that is true…" a sly smile crept into her features. "In that case, may I say it is nice to see you."

John dipped his head in her direction, giving a soft chuckle, which turned to a grimace as he felt the all too familiar pull of the medicine making contact with his bloodstream. He stared absently at the injection point on his arm and sighed, the helplessness of his situation threatening to return to his thoughts. Fortunately, Mary had grown accustomed to the signs, and made an effort to distract him.

"So, John." She turned to face him, crossing her legs and leaning forward, resting her chin on the hand of her un-pricked arm. "Have any more stories for me today?"

Her distraction worked as John couldn't help but smile at her playful tone. They fell easily into conversation, just as they always did, and the minutes ticked by unnoticed. As he talked, the admiration John held for the woman in front of him grew steadily stronger, and he found himself noticing little things about her. The way her eyes grew wide and shone with excitement as she fell further and further into their discussion; Her soft, milky complexion, which managed to look soft and subtle despite being stretched thin over her rounded cheekbones; The way that, even though her hair was long gone, and she preferred comfortable slacks over fashionable jeans, she had an air of femininity about her, and she radiated confidence and joy. The thing he admired most about her though, was her strength, and that she still held so much passion for life even though she was dealt such a harsh hand. John knew that if it wasn't for her, he would have faded to an empty shell long ago.

A knock at the door interrupted both his thoughts and his words as someone entered the room. He looked around to see a tall figure standing in the doorway, clad in an ankle length coat with a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. Johns mouth fell open in shock.

"Sherlock?" his confusion rang clearly through the room.

"John."

Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable in the ward as he made his way cautiously over to the two patients, pulling off his scarf and dragging a chair from the edge of the room. He kept his head bent as he sat, but his eyes were racing under his dark curls, taking in every detail of his unfamiliar surroundings. The tension in the air was almost tangible. To both mens surprise, it was Mary who broke the silence.

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?" the excitement in her voice rang out utterly undisguised, and Sherlock cocked his head in confusion.

"Yes..?" he eyed her quizzically.

"Oh my God, John has told me all about you! And all the exciting adventures you two get up to! It's so nice to actually get to meet you!" she was bouncing in her seat at the notion of meeting Sherlock so vigorously, a chord on her machine became dislodged, and Sherlock took the opportunity to question John while the nurse attended to her.

"You told her about me?"

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?" a groove formed between Johns eyebrows, taking Sherlock by surprise.

"I'm visiting, obviously." He crossed his arms defensively. "I thought maybe you could use some company, but I guess you have that covered."

He glanced towards Mary, raising an eyebrow at a furiously blushing John. The doctor cleared his throat and squinted at the floor.

"Yes well… may as well make the best of a bad situation." Sherlock noticed John glance at the girl, registering the look of awe in his eyes, before they returned to him. The corner of Johns mouth hinted at a small smile as he continued.

"But honestly Sherlock it… it is actually… good… it's good to see you."

"So, Sherlock, its good of you to finally turn up."

Mary's voice cut into their conversation before he could respond, and the hint of discern in her voice did not go unnoticed by Sherlock. He turned his head slowly to meet her unwavering gaze, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He kept his voice wooden.

"Well, I've been busy. Crimes don't stop for one sick man."

"Or apparently they do, since you're here now." Her own voice was nonchalant, and Sherlock straightened his back. This girl had wit, and he didn't like it.

"Apparently."

John, who had been looking between the two of them as if he were watching a tennis match, interjected, slapping his hand against his knee.

"Right, well, Sherlock, this is Mary, Mary, this is Sherlock." He was suddenly quite desperate to ease the tension that had started building in the room, and he quickly swiped his hand across his forehead. "I met Mary when I started treatment, she's been here longer than me."

The corner of Sherlocks mouth turned up minutely at the grimace that flashed across Johns face as he registered his words. The poor man never really could defuse an edgy atmosphere gracefully. Nevertheless, Sherlock tried to arrange his features to show something other than distaste, an action he could see reflected in Marys.

"So, John, you've been telling Mary here about me hmm?" He raised an eyebrow as John flexed his fingers nervously. "What exactly have you been saying?"

John took the opportunity to continue his unfinished story to Mary, only that afternoon he found himself constantly interrupted by Sherlock, who insisted he was telling it wrong. And honestly, he felt the happiest he had felt in the ward since he first stepped foot through the door.


	7. Chapter 7

The weeks went by, and Sherlocks visits to the ward grew more and more frequent. It was at Mary's suggestion that Sherlock started bringing cases to the treatment room, telling the two patients all sorts of stories and theories, bouncing ideas off them as they worked together to solve each crime. While the detective could never really bring himself to like Johns new companion, nor her he, they developed a mutual respect, recognising each other's ability and intelligence. John, of course, was completely oblivious to that side of things.

What no one was oblivious to however, was the fact that with each passing session, Johns condition was improving. His skin was slowly losing its pasty, pale complexion, his once thinning hair was starting to grow thicker, even his dulled eyes were showing hints of their old shine. Every time someone dropped by, Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper, even Lestrade at times, they were all delighted with his progress. Soon, even John himself stared showing signs of genuine hope. The only one who had difficulty expressing their joy was Mary, whose condition remained unchanged.

"Honestly, I'm happy for you!"

The two of them sat side by side in the ward as she insisted for what seemed like the hundredth time that she felt no resentment towards him. John frowned at her, his feet shuffling uncomfortably on the floor.

"I'm sorry Mary, I just can't help feeling sort of, well… bad about it all. You know since I'm… and you're… sodding hell I'm just sorry."  
Mary gave a weary smiled, and leaned over to plant a soft peck on his mouth.

"That's because you're too kind for your own good."

Keeping her fingers intertwined with his, she raised their hands to place the back of hers gently to his face.

"John, I would rather at least one of us make it out of this you know. Please, stop apologising for being a survivor." She pressed her forehead to his and closed her eyes, inhaling his scent deep into her lungs before leaning back into her chair, her small smile back in place. "Besides, who says I've given up yet? Never know, I could come in tomorrow fighting fit!"

John gave her hand a squeeze, unable to hold back a chuckle at the enthusiasm he had grown so fond of. He regarded her with adoring eyes as she blushed under his gaze, before leaning in to steal another kiss. Right as their lips touched however, they were interrupted by a deep voice.

"John, you've been summoned."

Sherlock stood in the doorway, dark and ominous as ever, and John couldn't help but roll his eyes at the dramatics that seemed to follow his friend where ever he went.

"Summoned? Summoned where?"

John detangled his hand from Marys as one of the nurses started unhooking the tubes attached to his arm, and he caught a glimpse of her uneasy glance towards the detective in the peripherals of his vision. Before he could say anything though, Sherlock was answering his question.

"You know, I'm not entirely sure. Somewhere in the main building, most likely your doctor's office, given the circumstance."  
John nodded thoughtfully as the nurse finished her work, packing away the needle and wheeling the contraption away. He turned to Mary, ignoring the small scoff from Sherlock at the delay.

"You going to be ok if I go now?" he crouched next to her chair, taking her hand in his once again. She smiled warmly at him, her dull eyes glinting weakly, sending a small ache through Johns heart.

"I'll be fine you silly man. Go see what the doctor wants. I'll catch up with you before I go." She leant forward and kissed his cheek, squeezing his hand in a gesture of approval. He smiled at her and straightened up, walking over to meet Sherlock in the doorway.

"You've taken quite a liking to her, haven't you?"

John ignored the tone in Sherlocks voice as they walked together down the hallway.

"That was never actually a secret Sherlock, you've known about Mary and me for weeks."

"Hmm, yes, I suppose I have noticed."

He stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his coat as he strode along, a slight scowl set into his brow. John regarded him quizzically, wondering what on earth could be going on in his friends head. After a moment, a thought occurred to him.

"Sherlock," the idea seemed ridiculous, but John couldn't help but feel slightly amused. "Are you jealous of Mary?"

The toe of Sherlocks shoe caught the pavement, and he stumbled forward in surprise. He caught himself before he could fall though, and once he had regained his balance, he stuffed his hands even deeper into his pockets, his scowl deepening.

"Jealous? Of Mary? What in Gods name gave you that idea?"

John couldn't help but chuckle as he quickened his pace to keep up with Sherlocks loping strides.

"Well, I have been spending a lot of time with her."

"Of course you have, you're in treatment together."

"We've seen each other out of treatment and you know it."

Sherlock huffed out an irritated breath.

"No, I am not jealous of your girlfriend. Or whatever it is you two have going on."

John raised his hands in defeat.

"Okay, alright, it was just a question."

The conversation drew to a close as they stepped through the door to the main building and into reception. They approached the desk, John gave the counter lady the name of his doctor and they were seen through to his office, where they sat and waited. Well, John sat. As always, Sherlock stood against the back wall, eyes wandering, taking in every new detail of his new surroundings.

Before too long, the door opened and the doctor entered the room, greeting the pair warmly.

"John, how are you good fellow?"

"Doctor, good to see you, good to see you." He shook his fellow doctors hand before they each took a seat, facing each other over the desk.

Sherlock stayed silent and still in the background, like a shadow.

John clasped his hands together, hissing in a breath through his teeth in anticipation.

"So Doc, what news have you got for me?"

"Well John, I'm just going to come right out and say it. Your tumour, while still present, has dramatically decreased in size, and while not you're completely in remission, the surgeons and I feel comfortable enough to explore the idea of surgery to remove it completely."  
Johns eyebrows shot upward in disbelief. The breath he was holding huffed out of his chest in an incredulous blast, and the widest grin Sherlock had ever seen him muster flew across his face.

"That's… that's fantastic! Doctor I… that's brilliant!"

The level of joy and relief that saturated his voice was enough to make even Sherlock grin and let out a small chuckle. John was truly ecstatic, and even though there were nagging doubts about the surgery eating away at his thoughts, he let himself join in his happiness, if only for a moment.

"Now, obviously we will need to go over the risks and the procedure-" the doctor tried to remain professional, but even he wasn't immune to the infectious mood, so he only smiled widely as John cut him off.

"Yes! Yes of course, when can we… when can we start... all of that, hmm?"

John tried to settle himself, clearing his throat and grasping his knees, but the flood of relief seemed to refuse to ebb, and he felt light headed. The rest of the meeting seemed like a daze to him. All he could think about was life returning to normal. He and Sherlock, out in London hunting down criminals and saving lives. Seeing Molly in the morgue, and Lestrade down at the station, hell even Mycroft's over dramatic car would have been a sight for sore eyes.

"So are you going to tell Mary?"

Sherlocks voice brought him back to reality as they walked back through the reception and out into the hallway. He blinked as Sherlocks words bounced around his brain.

Mary.

A wave of guilt crashed over him as he realised he hadn't thought of her since finding out the news. He rung his hands nervously , scrunching his face up in shame. When he opened his eyes again however, he noticed a slight smirk on his companions face.

"What's that look for then?" his voice was harsh, defensive, and it only made Sherlocks smirk grow.

"No look, just a thought." His tone made John frown, which the detective took as a notion to continue.

"I saw every thought you had flash across your face back in that room. Of the apartment, of the work, the clients, the hospital. Everything you knew in your old life. You didn't give her a single thought until just now, when I mentioned her. Maybe your liking isn't that strong after all."

John tugged at the hem of his jacket and muttered a reply.

"It's bloody well stronger than my liking for you at the moment."

They rounded the corner, and the door to his ward came into sight, and Johns excitement on sharing his news with Mary grew with every step. By the time he pushed through the door, there was a spring in his step and a grin plastered across his face. A joy that vanished the moment he stepped into the room.

It was empty, except for a single nurse, straightening up her surroundings. When she turned to look at the men, John could see that she had been weeping, and he felt as if a cold stone had sunk into the pit of his stomach.

"What happened in here?" his voice was shaking, barely audible across the room. "Where is Mary?"

The nurse sniffed, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth as fresh tears welled in her eyes. The look of despair she gave was enough to drain John of all elation he had felt before.

"Oh John, I'm so sorry." Of course, every nurse on the ward new about, and very much liked, John and Mary, and her pain was evident. "She collapsed while you were out. The EMD's took her up to the main hospital. That's all I know. I'm so sorry!"

John felt her words slam into him, and before he knew what had happened, he felt the hard thud of his knees against the floor, and the soft carpet of the ward beneath his palms.


	8. Chapter 8

"John, you can't still be upset over her, can you?"

John just stared at Sherlock from his hospital bed. Sherlock looked honestly perplexed.

"What? I'm just saying, theres no point to it."

"Its called grief, Sherlock. Im grieving, its what people do." John rubbed his hands over his face, wincing slightly as the IV was disturbed.

It was the week after Mary had died, and despite the loss of his girlfriend, he was preparing for surgery. From what he had been told, she had collapsed soon after he and Sherlock left the treatment ward, and even after hours of surgery trying to stop the haemorrhaging, had succumbed to death. John hadn't been able to see her body before the Coroner had come to collect her, neither had he brought himself to step foot in the ward again. Instead, he had simply stayed in the apartment, quiet and brooding, until the doctor had called him into hospital.  
He now sat upright in his bed, not really looking at anything, unable to find interest in his situation or his surroundings, while Sherlock sat in at armchair by the door, watching him impatiently. Unable to stay silent anymore, the detective spoke up.

"John, I understand you feel you've suffered a great loss, but you really should consider your own circumstances." In less than three hours, you're going to be in the operating room while a team of surgeons cut apart your head, doesn't that mean anything to you?"

John rolled his eyes to the ceiling, annoyance saturating his voice.

"Of course that means something to me Sherlock, but like you said, I've just suffered a great loss… I'm a little bit preoccupied right now." He turned to look out the window, his face a mask of sadness. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at him.

"Urgh, you're not going to start crying again are you?"

John just clenched his jaw and blinked slowly. Sherlock was never one for sentiment or emotion, and John really didn't expect him to suddenly grow a conscience right there and then.

The conversation drifted off, leaving a quiet stillness in the room, broken only by the beeping of Johns heart monitor. The steady rhythm was calming to John, who found himself focusing on the pattern as a way to distract himself from the dull ache in his chest. He hadn't realised just how attached he had grown to her. Not until she wasn't there anymore. But it was all too clear to him then, as he waited for the surgeon to come in and wheel him away. As he stared out the window, he could see her in his memories, see her smile, and hear her voice. It broke his heart to know that he would never hear that voice, or see that smile, ever again.

Since the beginning, when the doctor first told him about the tumour in his brain, John had felt out of place in his own life. Even though he had people around him, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Greg… even Sherlock had come around eventually, he still felt like he was just imposing on their lives, and he wasn't really meant to be there anymore. Like he was living on borrowed time, and they were only going through the motions until he passed away, and then they would just get back to their own affairs. It had been Mary that had been able to make him feel like he was still a part of something. That he still belonged in their lives, and that he still had a life of his own. Since meeting her, and hearing her story, he had even began to hope that maybe there was a happy ending waiting for him, that maybe a miracle would happen and they would survive. There were some nights, when he was awake and she was sleeping soundly by his side, that he had indulged in fantasies about their life together after their ordeal with the illness. He had even gone so far as to imagine them with children, living in an old refurbished home in the English countryside. What a fool he had been.

"What was that John?"

Sherlocks voice cut through his thoughts, bringing him back to the hospital room. He snapped his head around to look at his friend, puzzled by his question.

"What?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

"You muttered something… Idiot, I think it was."

"Oh, did I?" he was instantly disinterested again, his thoughts returning to Mary, and their make-believe life. A moment passed in silence before it became unbarable for the doctor.

"I was going to propose you know."

Sherlock sat forward in his seat.

"Speak up John, you're muttering again."

John cleared his throat.

"I said, I was going to propose to Mary."

There was a pause before Sherlock spoke again.

"Oh. When?"

"After all… all this."

John gestured to the hospital room weakly, his eyes remaining on the window. Had he been looking at the detective, he would have seen the disdain flash across his face before he was able to arrange his features into a look of attempted sympathy.

"I see…"

John closed his eyes.

"I see?" He turned his head slowly to meet Sherlocks gaze, his mouth set in a hard line. "I tell you I was going to ask Mary to marry me after we were better, and all you have to say is I see?"

Sherlock sat back defensively.

"Well, what did you want me to say?"

The doctor let out a breath. He rubbed his eyes slowly before clasping his hands in his lap, squinting avoidantly at his sheets.

"Nothing. Nothing, at all."

The door opened, and both mens heads whipped around to look at the doctor striding into the room. Sherlock flicked his eyes over to John just in time to see what little colour he had in his cheeks drain to pale white. This was it.

"Okay, John, we're ready for you. The nurses will be here to wheel you to the OR in just a tick, I just need to go over a few things first."

"Yes." John nodded vigorously, his mouth drying out almost instantly. "Okay. Right, good."

"Are you okay John?" Sherlock was at his bedside, staring down at his friend with concern. John looked up at him, and Sherlock caught a glimpse of pure fear in his eyes before it was replaced with Johns ever ready mask of brave determination. John took a deep breath, holding it in his lungs for a moment, as if it was the last breath he would ever know, before letting it go and nodding curtly.

"Yes. Yes, lets do this then."

Within minutes, John had been taken away, and Sherlock was left to stand alone in his empty hospital room, with nothing to do, but wait.


	9. Chapter 9

The room was spinning around him as John struggled to open his eyes. It felt like his eyelids were made of lead, and his head was filled with cotton candy. He could hear his heart beat echoed in his ears, and the sounds in the room were muffled, as if he was hearing them from under water. He squinted his eyes at two shadowy figures in his vision, unable to focus on anything at all. He tried to speak, but the words wouldn't form in his mouth, and all that ended up coming out was a garbled mutter. The two figures turned towards him as the fuzzy outlines slowly came into focus.

"Ah, he's awake."

The doctors voice floated through the clouds in his head, making it sound like he was very far away, even though John could see he had moved to the side of his bed. He tried to sit up, but the doctor only hushed him.

"Now, now Dr Watson, don't strain yourself." A gentle hand pushed him back down onto the mattress, as John felt the clouds in his head closing in. "You rest up and let that anaesthetic wear off. There will be time to talk when you're fully awake later."

A soft blackness was creeping in from the edges of Johns vision, and his heavy eyelids were starting to close again as his eyes shifted to the second figure. Right before his vision blacked out completely, Sherlocks face screamed into vivid focus, and Johns heart skipped a beat. He had just enough time to register the look of pure anguish on his friends' features before sleep overcame him, and dragged him back into its depths.

"Ah, John, there you are."

Sherlocks voice rang clear in Johns ears as he blinked away the sleep. Unlike last time, there was no cloud in his head, and his hospital room around him came easily into focus. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes as they adjusted to the light streaming through the open window. Opening them again, he saw Sherlock in his usual seat near the door, a newspaper hanging in front of his face. John was confused.

"Sherlock, how did you know I was awake when you weren't even looking at me?"

Sherlock flicked over the page of the paper, and John could almost hear his eyes rolling in his head.

"John, please, you make enough noise when you wake up to wake the entire of Barts up with you."

Johns face flushed as he looked away embarrassed. His eyes flitted over the room as an awkward silence hung between them. Eventually he cleared his throat and spoke up.

"So, are you going to tell me how it went, or hasn't the doctor said anything to you?"

Sherlock was oddly still, the paper in his hands folding over at the top as if ashamed.

"Sherlock?" Johns voice was childlike as Sherlock lowered his hands, staring intently at his friend with narrowed eyes.

"No, we've had a couple of conversations while you were… sleeping." He flicked the paper out again, continuing his reading as if he hadn't missed a beat. John was taken aback.

"Well… are you going to tell me what he said?"

"I think that's a job for him, don't you agree?"

John was growing annoyed at this stage, and even a little anxious. His voice cracked ever so slightly as he tried to keep the conversation going.

"Well, can you get him for me?"

There was a moments pause before Sherlock snapped up the paper, rising swiftly to his feet.

"Certainly."

He was out the door before John could blink. He shook his head and muttered under his breath, wondering what the doctor could have said to have Sherlock acting so… like Sherlock.

"What in the world…"

Before a minute had even passed, the door opened again, and Sherlock was back, followed by the doctor. The detective simply took his seat and resumed reading like nothing had happened, while the doctor strode slowly over to the bed side, pulling up the stool that was sitting beside it. He had a seriously grim expression on his face, and John knew instantly it was not the news he was hoping for.

"John," the doctors voice was low. "I'm afraid theres been some complications."

Johns head was spinning, and his mouth had gone dry, but he simply nodded, indicating for the doctor to go on.

"When the surgeons reached the tumour they found that it was… more advanced than the scans showed. They were able to remove about half of it, but the other half is unfortunately buried quite deep in your brain. I'm afraid it will be difficult to remove safely."

John swallowed dryly.

"Okay… so what happens next? Do I continue chemo, or go back into surgery?"

The doctor simply shrugged.

"That's up to you. The surgeons are willing to try and remove the rest of it when you are more stable and they have revised that section of the brain, but the risk factor involved would be a lot higher this time around, considering the tumours placement. If you don't want to go under again, and just continue chemo and radiation therapy to try and reduce it, we can arrange that instead, but theres really no telling what will-"

"I'll have the surgery."

The words were out of Johns mouth before he had even full processed the meaning. He was staring straight ahead of him, his eyes unblinking, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth were giving off a dull ache. He gave a start when Sherlocks voice rang out from his bed side. He hadn't realised the detective had moved from the door, let alone was standing mere inches from him.

"John, are you sure?"

He looked up at his friends tall figure, towering over him like a guardian, and he suddenly felt very small. Sherlocks eyes were narrowed, and his nostrils flared in concentration as his gaze burned their way into Johns eyes. John swallowed nervously before nodding.

"Yes. I just want this to be over with Sherlock. No more chemo, no more weeks of feeling sick and weak and helpless."

"But the risks John…"

"I know." The fear in Johns voice had disappeared, only to be replaced with sheer determination. "I know the risks, I'm a doctor too remember? I will take the surgery. How soon will they be ready?"

Both men turned their gaze to the doctor, who had been sitting silently by the bed, listening to the exchange in concerned silence. He regarded John with a look of pitiful sympathy before sighing heavily.

"Well, you need to recover fully from this last operation, and like I said, the surgical team will need to study up on and revise that specific area of the brain, so we're looking at… about a month."

John squinted down at his bed sheets and nodded.

"And will I have to stay here, or can I return to the apartment?"

"That's up to you. We want to keep you here at least for a few days for observation, but you're free to return home after that if you wish."

John nodded again.

"I want to stay at the apartment when I can. I want to see it again, and live my old life, even for just a couple of weeks."

The doctor gave another sigh, and Johns eye twitched in annoyance. With a gruff, the doctor hoisted himself to his feet, rolling the stool back against the wall.

"Well, if this is your decision, I'll make the arrangements. After you return to the apartment, we'll call you back about two days before the surgery for final scans and prep."

The doctor paused in the doorway to look back at the pair, pity shining clear from his eyes.

"If you change your mind, John, just say so."

John nodded once, and the doctor left, closing the door silently behind him. The silence settled in around the two men left alone, until it reached an awkward pitch. With a start, Sherlock made a move for the door, his face set in stone. John watched him move across the room,cocking his head to the side.

"Sherlock? Where are you going?"

The tall figure stopped with his hand on the door knob. A long moment passed before he answered, not turning around.

"I need some air."

With that, he yanked open the door, striding out of the room with a swish of his cloak, and the door to swing shut silently behind him, leaving John alone with the thought of what was to come.


	10. Chapter 10

"John, why on Earth did you want me to bring this thing?"

Sherlock held out the video camera with a slightly disgusted look on his face, as if the device repelled him. He had no idea what John would be wanting with such a thing in his hospital room, but he had sounded quite insistent about it. John just grimaced back at him, clearly uncomfortable.

"Well, there's just some things I've been thinking about." Johns hands fidgeted under the thin blanket as Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. "I've thought of some things I want to say in case… well… in case… well you know."

Sherlocks brow furrowed as the penny dropped.

"Oh come now John, don't talk like that." He couldn't keep the scoff out of his voice. "It's just a minor setback, they'll go in this afternoon and fix it all up. You'll be back at the apartment in no time at all. About time too, the cases have been piling up and I could really do with my best man back on-"

"Sherlock," John caught his gaze as he cut the detective off, hopelessness and despair shining out of his eyes. "Please, just… just do this for me, okay?"

There was a moment of stillness in the room, with only the beeping of Johns heart monitor breaking the silence. Sherlock pressed his lips together in a thin line as he studied the look of sadness on his friends face. Even though his skin was pale and pasty, and his hair had been replaced with bandages from last months failed surgery, in that moment Sherlock could have sworn the man looking back at him was not a man at all, but a child. Afraid, lonely and anxious.

He swallowed a deep breath before giving a curt nod, and switching on the camera, aiming the viewfinder at John. He watched on the screen as John swallowed dryly, gathering his thoughts.

"Well, lets see." he rubbed his face nervously before giving a small smile at the camera. "Hi, everyone, just… making this to tell you all the things I've been meaning to say for a while now. Um, lets see, Ill start with Harry…"

Sherlock sat next to Johns bed while he talked, his face set in a motionless scowl. Hearing John talk about each person he knew as if he would never get the chance to talk to them again saw the return of the uncomfortable knot in his stomach, as well as a new sensation. An ache, deep in his chest, as if his heart were under an immense strain. With every word John spoke, the ache grew deeper, and as he talked about Lestrade and Molly, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft, Sherlock found it more and more difficult to keep the camera steady. He couldn't help but feel the moment to be very intimate, and he realised that there, in that room, was the closest he and John had ever been, and would probably ever be again. He shook his head as Johns next words snapped him out of his thoughts.

"And finally, here's a message for you, Sherlock."

Their eyes met over the camera as Sherlocks mouth grew slightly slack. Johns face was a portrait of pain, and Sherlock found himself once again gazing into the face of a child.

"Sherlock, you… you, are the greatest man… I have ever met." Johns eyes, which had stayed locked on the viewfinder during his entire monologue, now fell to the bed sheet in front of him. "I cant really, put into words what you have done for me… and my life. These past few weeks being in and out hospital I've found myself thinking a lot about… the day we met and…"

John raised his head in surprise as Sherlock snapped the recorder shut, fighting hard to control the tears welling in his eyes.

"Really, John, don't be so dramatic." He tried to keep his voice steady, but John could clearly hear the shake ringing out through the room.

"You'll have the surgery today, and be back in the apartment by next week. You don't have to go through the whole rigmarole of leaving a message. People only leave messages when they actually -"

"Sherlock, stop." Johns own voice was shaking as Sherlock sniffed, swiping a hand under his nose in an attempt to hide the emotion on his face. "Please, let me… just let me do this. Please."

The detective turned toward the doctor, eyes wide as he bit the inside of his cheeks, fighting the onslaught with all his might. Johns own eyes shone with tears as he spoke.

"We both know there's a… very real chance that I… that I might not… make it through today. Not after what they found." He swallowed dryly before continuing. "I want to say this now, so… so you know, just in case. You are… the most brilliant man… most brilliant person, I've ever met and… that I've had the chance to be a part of your world is something that I find myself most grateful for. No one," he let out a breath, "no one… would have ever completed me like you have."

Sherlock couldn't contain his despair as he felt John clasp his hand, and the tears flowed freely down his face as he clung to his companion. The pain and desperation he felt tearing him apart reflected clearly on Johns face as he continued, their eyes locked.

"I joined the Army because I wanted to feel something Sherlock. I didn't find any satisfaction in civilian life, and I thought maybe… maybe being on the battle field would change that." He pulled his eyes away, squeezing them tight "And it did… it did for a while until I was injured…" he let out a humourless laugh. "Let me tell you, at the time I thought… I thought it was the absolute worst thing that could have happened to me. The thought of returning to London and living an ordinary life… it scared me Sherlock. It scared me. But then Mike introduced us and…" He shook his head, wiping the tears from his cheeks as a smile grew across his face. A desperate choke of laughter forced its way out of Sherlocks lungs at the sheer ridiculousness of the chance encounter. The men smiled warmly at each other as John spoke on.

"He introduced us and my life… my life just… I finally started to live, Sherlock. You… you brought me to life again. I know we… I know things were strained some times, but… I want you to know that… there was never… there was never even a second that I… that I regretted or… or wanted things to… to change."

His words were hardly making it out of his mouth as John sat in his bed, hunched under the weight of what he was saying. Sherlock couldn't stop his body shaking as desperate sobs rattled themselves out of his chest, which felt as if it were wrapped in a vice. Both mens faces were scrunched up in agony as their hands drained to white around each other. All the years of friendship, and the experiences they shared together were boiling over, encasing them in their own universe of desperate sorrow, fear and anguish.

Sherlock leant forward in his chair, his elbows coming to rest on Johns bed, and the two friends sat for an immeasurable moment, heads bent together as the tears dripped slowly onto the sheets. Their ragged breathing and harsh sniffs mingled with the unsteady beating on the heart monitor, a sound both reassuring, and ominous.

"John…" Sherlocks usually smooth voice caught in his throat, and he swallowed dryly, sitting up to face his companion before going on.

"John…" he felt the tears threatening to overflow again as he struggled to continue. Johns face, still wet with emotion, had aged from a child, to a tired old man, helpless in the presence of his death.

"John, I'm…" his voice was barely over a whisper, "I'm so.. I'm so sorry…"

"No!" John shot forward, all the helplessness gone from his features, replaced with the determination Sherlock had always admired him for.

"Sherlock, don't even try that with me. Everything you did, everything you said during our time together… We had our ups, we had our downs, but I… I wouldn't have had it any other way, you hear me? I wouldn't have had it any other way."

Sherlocks face was in his hands as he was once again over come with tears. Every harsh word, every crass look he had ever shot the doctors way flew into his mind, and racked his body with guilt. He was aware of the sobs coming from Johns bed, but he couldn't bring himself to look at his friend, he just felt so ashamed of himself. All those years… all those years he spent belittling who he now understood was the greatest man he had ever met. He just let himself shake, letting the mangled cries of pain choke their way out of his arid throat.

Eventually the two men grew still, the silence broken only by the occasional sniff, or a stifled sob. Even the steady beep of the machines had melted into the background. Both sets of eyes were stung red, and the bed sheets between them were stained with moisture. Not a word was needed to be said, and they sat in silence, just appreciating one others company for what could possibly be the last time.

A soft knock at the door broke the still air, and their eyes met.

It was time.

Sherlock stood next to the door as the nurses busied themselves with John, transferring him to the gurney that would whisk him away. Johns face was a cold mask of indifference, giving nothing of the ordeal just passed, mirroring the shade in Sherlocks face exactly.

In what seemed like no time at all, he was ready to go, breathing deeply as he felt the wheels below him start to turn. As he passed through the doorway, he locked eyes with Sherlock, his best friend, and saw reflected in them the courage he had always admired.

Too soon, Sherlock was gone from his vision, and he was left to stare at the ceiling as the nurses wheeled him closer and closer to his fate.


	11. Chapter 11

Massive internal bleeding to the brain.

.

.

.

Unexpected complications.

.

.

.

.  
Harmful cranial pressure.

.

.

.

.  
We did everything we could.

.

.

.

John?

Sherlock?

John, can you hear me?

Sherlock! Yes, yes I can hear you. Its all dark Sherlock, whats going on? Turn the light on.

This is nonsense of course you cant hear me.

Sherlock for Christs sake, I can hear you! Where are you, why cant I feel anything?  
Sherlock? Are you there? Say something, please! And turn the bloody light on!  
I can hear you breathing, please just say something…

Oh, fine. Im just going to talk, its hardly my fault if you're not listening.

Sherlock, I AM listening, you're ignoring me!

John, you need to pull through this.

What do you mean pull through this? I don't even know what this is.

The surgeons… they aren't hopeful.

The surgeons? What do you mean? Aren't hopeful about what?

They said you probably wont wake up.

...  
They said…?

They said the damage is too extensive. That your brain cant function under the pressure put on it by the haemorrhage.

…  
Haemorrhage..?

And as a man of science, I know that they are right.

Sherlock…

But I also know you John.

Sherlock… I can feel it…

I know you.

Oh my God, Sherlock…

I know you. And I know you can fight this. I know you can wake up.

Please God no…

John, listen to me.

Sherlock… I'm dying….

You. Can. Do this. Don't give up. Don't give up on yourself, and don't…

Sherlock… I'm sorry…

Don't give up on me…

Sherlock…  
Sherlock… I can feel now…

You know, ever since I can remember, which is practically since forever, I've been alone. There has always been people around me, but I've always felt alone.

Sherlock, please… please hold my hand…

But then… then you came into my life and… and suddenly I didn't feel alone any more.

Please Sherlock, please be holding my hand…

I remember when we met… right here, in this hospital, all those years ago.

Oh God…

I honestly didn't think anything of it. I didn't think anything of you…

Sherlock, I'm so scared…

I don't even know why I came back for you on that case. A Study in Pink, that's what you called it. But I did, and since that night… since that night my life has become…

Im glad you came back for me…

Happy, John. My life has become happy.

I've been happy too…

You fill the emptiness inside of me… I don't even know how you do it, but I haven't felt alone since I met you…

Neither have I Sherlock…

That's why you have to wake up!

I wont wake up…

You cant leave me John, you hear that? Please don't leave me alone again…

Sherlock… I cant wake up…

Please don't leave me alone again…

I'm so sorry Sherlock…

John?

Oh God… Oh God…

John? John are you there? Can you hear me?

Sherlock, its happening! Oh God keep talking, please keep talking…  
Sherlock?

Footsteps.

Sherlock! Sherlock come back! Please don't leave me!

A door.

Oh God, please come back Sherlock, I don't want to die!  
I don't want to be alone!  
Sherlock?

NURSE! NURSE I NEED HELP IN HERE!

Sherlock! I'm so scared Sherlock please come back!  
Please don't leave me here!

John! John I'm right here okay? I'm right here you're going to be okay.

Sherlock, you're so far away…

Stay with me John…

Sherlock… help me…

Stay… with me… John stay…

Sherlock I cant… I cant hear you…

Stay… with… me…


	12. Chapter 12

Mary?

Hello John!


	13. Chapter 13

Mycroft  
Mrs Hudson  
Lestrade  
Molly

I deeply regret that it has come to this, and I truly apologise for leaving you with the consequences of my actions. Ever since Johns passing, I've found very little satisfaction with my life. The days seem empty, and endless, the nights are quiet, and lonely. My mind, once a brilliant, thriving archive of boundless information, now only serves as a nightmarish prison, haunted by memories. I recognize my decision as incredibly selfish, and I beg you to understand why I can no longer continue. It seems I was more right than I intended to be all those years ago; I am indeed, lost without my blogger.  
Please bury me next to John.

Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
